


taking advantage

by dreamcatchme



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Gay Character, Drunk Sex, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 07:57:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamcatchme/pseuds/dreamcatchme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loras has to deal with a drunken, overly-emotional Renly.<br/>Written for the asoiafkinkmeme prompt, "You're pretty." "And you're drunk."</p>
            </blockquote>





	taking advantage

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing a Renloras oneshot, so don't be too hard on me! 
> 
> Written for the following prompt on asoiafkinkmeme:
> 
> "You're pretty."  
> "And you're drunk."
> 
> Loras is pretty. Renly is drunk.

The first tear rolls down Renly Baratheon’s cheek, and Loras Tyrell has to fight the urge to roll his eyes.

After four long, hard days and nights’ pursuit south, Renly and his vast army have finally reached the Stormlands – ancient allies and bannermen of House Baratheon came in their masses and joined with enthusiasm and fervour throughout their journey from King’s Landing, triggered of course by the death of King Robert. With the might of a hundred thousand men at his command and Loras himself at the head of his Kingsguard, Renly decided to build his force’s primary encampment in the flat, grassy grounds of Storm’s End, his childhood home and the immense stronghold he saw as his birthright. The setting up of tents, building of walls and creation of walkways took the best part of a day and, by the end of it, when the shadows of the turrets grew long and the yawning summer sun dwindled over Shipbreaker Bay, Renly had called for roasted meats, pigeon pies, turnips soaked in butter, crumbled cheese, blood oranges, stewed onions, sweet honeycombs and barrel upon barrel of spiced cider and summerwine to be assembled in the camp’s central marquee, along with as many of his men as could fit inside it, and a feast to celebrate the youngest Baratheon’s newly-staked and widely-supported claim to the Iron Throne would be enjoyed by all. Loras had been seated to his lord’s left, his sister Margaery to his right, and he had watched and attempted to mask his amusement as Renly became more intoxicated and less inhibited as the night progressed. At least, he had been amused up until the moment when Renly had leapt to his feet, tapped theatrically on the side of his goblet with his silver spoon and raised it into the air when he had the attention of his men.

“I would like to raise a toast,” he’d said, grinning like a fool and winking at Loras, “to my beautiful wife-to-be...” He tenderly placed his free hand on the back of Margaery’s neck, and she looked up at him, biting her lip ruefully. “And the Lord Commander of my Rainbow Guard...” He swapped his goblet to his other hand and turned his attention to Loras; he seemed to go to place a hand on his shoulder, but instead, chose to lean slightly and twirl a loose curl around his finger. “... without whom none of this would be possible. And to each and every one of you.” Renly fanned his fingers and gestured around the cavernous room, then Loras had gritted his teeth and forced a casual smile as Renly raised his cup again and exclaimed, “Ours is the fury!” And his men had answered.

Now, Renly is downright drunk. And he can be overtly-emotional at the best of times.

When the men are focused on their food and ale once more, Loras smiles good-naturedly with a practised ease, kisses his sister on the forehead by way of bidding her goodnight and places an arm that appears friendly but in reality means a whole lot more than that around Renly’s shoulders.

“I think it’s time you rested, _Your Grace_ ,” he hisses in his ear, before wrenching him up as gently as he can manage from his seat and pulling him through a gap in the nearest wall of the tent. Renly gasps dramatically, but doesn’t fight against Loras’ grasp.

The walk to the King’s tent isn’t a long one, and it’s a pleasant, balmy evening, but the alcohol-fuelled tears come on almost immediately. One moment, Renly is stumbling and giggling at Loras’ side, then the next, his body slumps – Loras rolls his eyes and wraps an arm around his waist when the first soggy whimper forces its way out, then he hears Renly’s trembling voice.

“Thank you, Loras,” he sobs, fingers clutching at his neck and shoulders. “For... for everything. You’ve given me so much... your time, your sword... and yourself. I don’t know where I would be without you and... and... Oh Loras.”

“You’re drunk,” Loras tells him firmly, the corners of his lips twitching. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying!” Renly suddenly shouts indignantly, pulling himself away from Loras’ physical support and moving to fold his arms like the petulant little lord Loras remembers from when he was first fostered by the Baratheons at Storm’s End, but he overbalances too quickly for even the Knight of Flowers to react in time, and he ends up on all fours in the grass in the shadow of Storm’s End’s great stone statue of Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Loras takes a moment to gaze up at the statue of his childhood hero and lifelong idol in the pale moonlight, admiring his poise and focus even when cast in stone, before reaching a hand out to pull Renly to his feet. But Renly’s tears are gone now, the wetness in his eyes replaced by something else. He shifts his body around and for a moment Loras genuinely believes he’s going to allow him to help him up, but then Renly smirks mischievously and tugs Loras down to the ground, and Loras doesn’t argue with him. Suddenly his face is free of worry and he’s a boy again, all curls and cheekbones, and Loras can’t help but smile back. He leans against the cool stone of the statue and Renly places a hand on either side of him, leaning in and touching his nose with the tip of his own.

“You’re pretty,” he murmurs, biting his lip in that way that drives Loras crazy, makes him jealous of those pearly white teeth.

“And you’re drunk,” Loras reminds him, but in all honesty, he doesn’t really care. Renly’s tidal wave of emotion has turned to lust and his eyes are dark, burning, clouded with it. Loras can feel his breath on his skin, taste it on his tongue. Renly stares at his lips and leans in, his hands moving beneath him to fumble with the laces on Loras’ trousers, but something tugs at the back of Loras’ mind, and he’s suddenly guilty for what he wants to do, what he knows is inevitably going to happen unless he acts soon, now, before he loses his mind completely. “No, Renly, my lord, this isn’t right,” he says gently, stroking Renly’s cheek with his hand. “I won’t take advantage of you.”

Renly dips his head closer, nosing at Loras’ curls and kissing his neck, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. “Surely,” he murmurs against his skin, the sound and movement of his lips sending an electric thrill through Loras that goes straight to his cock. “I’m the one taking advantage of you?” he wonders aloud, biting down gently over Loras’ pulse point and causing him to gasp.

No longer in control of his own actions, Loras’ hand dips beneath the hem of Renly’s deep green satin doublet, trailing up his spine and coming to rest in his hair. When he bites down again, Loras moans and tangles his fingers in the dark curls he adores so much.

“Loras,” Renly mumbles against his skin.

“Kiss me, you fool,” he demands, then Renly’s mouth is on his, warm and wet and laced with summerwine. Renly kisses him deeply, his lips falling open and allowing Loras’ tongue passage to explore, and the taste of him is so intoxicating that Loras himself can’t help but not feel entirely sober. A moment later their tongues meet, crashing together in a fervent dance, a fight for dominance, then Renly’s hands are moving again, caressing the planes of Loras’ stomach, flattened and hardened by his hours of practise in the jousting yard, fingernails biting electrifyingly into his skin, tugging down his breeches and stroking him to full hardness.

He swallows Loras’ moans and Loras feels his smile against his own mouth. Then a moment later, Renly breaks the kiss and pulls himself down Loras’ lithe body, not once breaking their eye contact. The taste of summerwine and oil and just Renly lingers on his tongue as he gazes at him, then he throws his head back and gasps as Renly’s mouth, skilled even in intoxication, closes over the head of his cock. Loras’ breathing comes quick and sharp as Renly slowly drives him to the brink of ecstasy with his lips and tongue – one of his hands remains tangled in Renly’s tousled hair while the fingers of the other somehow become interlaced with Renly’s at his hip – then suddenly Loras sees blackness and stars behind his closed eyelids, screams out Renly’s name only to have it silenced by Renly’s lips on his once more. A moment later, his heart is still pounding as Renly rests his head on his chest and gazes at him.

“I love you, Loras Tyrell,” he says, his eyes huge and gleaming in the moonlight.

“You’re drunk,” Loras tells him once again, absently combing the ends of Renly’s hair with his fingertips. Renly’s brow furrows and he leans up toward Loras.

“I still love you,” Renly mutters against his lips, silencing Loras’ complains, which were half-hearted at most anyway.


End file.
